Highland Hunger (29 page)

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Authors: Hannah Howell

BOOK: Highland Hunger
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Alarm flashed in her eyes, but immediately she suppressed it. He had expected some resistance on that point, but with pursed lips, Moirae gave a single nod.
Dorian crossed the distance between them, wondering if she would step away. When she didn’t, he had to shift his stance as he felt himself begin to harden. Moirae had the power to inspire his lust, and he no longer was pretending that he didn’t intend to discover if she could satisfy it as well.
“And one more thing—” he whispered, his voice deep and husky with desire. He reached up and lightly fingered a loose tendril of hair on her cheek. Moirae swallowed and he could feel her heartbeat quicken, but her eyes never left his. She was daring him to continue, so he did, tracing his index finger down her throat, over her shoulder, then along her partially exposed bust line. “Know this, Lady Destiny, I agreed to train you because I intend to seduce you.”
Moirae gazed into his turbulent, storm-colored eyes. Every nerve ending in her body was responding to the unspoken message in the dark look, and only through sheer will was she able to force herself to glance down. With her right hand, she plucked his finger from her chest and then flicked it away as if she were removing an insect from her personage. “Seduction implies a willingness on my part, does it not?”
Dorian quirked a single eyebrow questioningly. “Indeed it does.”
She was doing an excellent job of appearing to be unmoved by the unmistakable sexual tension between them, but he could smell her body’s response. She absolutely wanted him just as much as he desired her.
Stepping back, Moirae flashed him a brilliant smile and reached down to gather her things lying on the settee. Donning her mantle, she said, “Excellent. Then you shall have a long wait, for I have no intention of being seduced. By you or any other man.”
Then she was gone. And it was several seconds before Dorian realized he was still grinning. Intrigued no longer sufficed what he felt for her. Fascination filled his every pore, and he felt more alive than he had in centuries.
He was embarking on a simple game of pursuit. But for the first time in a very long while, he was eager to play.
 
Moirae shifted uncomfortably, checked her stance to ensure her feet were shoulder width apart, and then looked out over the battlements to the target below. Lifting the bow, she nocked the arrow, and then curled her fingers around the bowstring so that all her joints were aligned and began to pull.
“Thumb,” came the soft reminder from behind.
Moirae fought the instinct to ram her elbow into his rib cage. “I know!” she grumbled and tucked her wayward thumb into her palm.
“You must use a consistent hand position.”
Moirae squeezed her eyes shut. Relearning a skill she had thought she had mastered was not the type of lesson she had been seeking. But Dorian had been insistent. And after that first humiliating night of training, she had no choice but to agree to his terms and improve her archery abilities before training on the sword. Her only source of solace was that her skill really was improving, and thankfully rapidly. She now could shoot long distances, even when the target was moving—neither of which she could have hoped to do beforehand.
“My grip was exceptionally reliable until you forced me to change it,” she muttered as she struggled to draw the arrow back.
He lightly placed his hand on her shoulder. “Do not allow your shoulder to rotate up or it will shorten the draw length—”
“—and, therefore, the distance and power of my shot,” Moirae gritted out, mimicking him as she released her grip.
Dorian watched the arrow slice through the night sky, piercing a distant small rabbit that had been munching on some food it had found. He grimaced. Moirae had hit the target and she shouldn’t have. He had given her his bow, which was strung significantly tighter than the average aerial weapon, enabling the force of his bolts to travel much faster and much farther. A bow’s draw length depended on the strength of the archer, and few men could exert the force she had just demonstrated. Somehow the taut strings of his bow must have slackened.
Taking his weapon from her, he returned her own. “Practice,” he ordered, examining the strings on his longbow. They seemed unyielding, but they were obviously not firm enough.
“For how long?” Moirae asked.
“Until you no longer have to think about shooting it correctly,” Dorian answered, ignoring her exaggerated sigh meant for him. But he knew that if Moirae were really as riled as she pretended, she wouldn’t be there night after night, following his counsel.
Dorian went to his bedchambers and took apart the bow and began to reconstruct the weapon. He was not a skilled artillator but he had learned the art of stringing a longbow years ago. He examined the glue-soaked hemp and decided it still seemed strong, then slowly began twisting the fiber one way and then back again until the weapon was restrung. He plucked it and the inflexible string barely moved under the semi-light pressure. Satisfied, Dorian sat back and decided to check on Moirae’s status.
Upon exiting his chambers, he realized that restringing the bow had taken him much longer than he had realized. Sunrise was imminent, and yet he could still smell her presence. Believing her to still be practicing, he headed down the hallway toward the tower staircase and almost missed seeing her asleep on the settee in his study.
He retrieved a blanket from his room and gently placed it over her, studying her as she slept. Moirae had been coming to his home for nearly a week and he had not once touched her. Surprisingly, the effort to keep from doing so had been quite difficult. Moirae was a remarkable beauty for one so young, but it was not just her appearance that appealed to him. Her irreverent wit coupled with unexpected remarks about life kept him curious. Too many times had he needed to fight the urge to kiss her, and seeing her asleep on his couch the feeling was even stronger.
Pivoting, Dorian headed to his room to go to bed. He knew, however, that sleep would not find him quickly, and by the time he did awake, she would be gone . . . or at least he hoped she would be.
 
Moirae kicked off her slippers, leaned back against the settee’s padded cushions, and contemplated her not-so-perfect plan. It was unusual to find so many comfortable furnishings in a single castle. The cost and upkeep of such items made it prohibitive. And yet Dorian—who lived alone, with the exception of his two servants, a husband and wife who rarely came into view—had nearly three times the furniture as the typical Highland laird of a sizeable clan. This she had confirmed earlier that evening when she had sneaked off to explore the castle when Dorian had vanished once again to play her role as the Guardian. She had hoped to discover a hint about the man, who he was and from where he came, but unfortunately, she found only more questions.
For the past two weeks, she had come to Kilnhurst soon after sunset to receive instruction. After a few hours, Dorian would leave the grounds to go out on patrol while she continued training until exhaustion took over. Then, she would retire to the study, intending to stay conscious until his return, only to fall asleep before he did so. She would awaken to find a blanket draped over her or a pillow under her head, proving he had been there. But tonight, she had stopped practicing soon after his departure.
Though she had initially resisted training on a weapon she thought she could already effectively use, Moirae knew her skills as an archer had dramatically improved in the past fortnight. She could always hit a target reliably at a distance, but now she could aim and draw faster and, most importantly, do so even if the target was small, in the shadows, or moving. But while the improvement would no doubt be an advantage to achieving her goals, mastering archery was not the reason she was there
or
the reason she had agreed to temporarily stop playing the role of the Guardian.
Learning the sword was her goal.
Moirae drew a deep breath and released it in a long sigh as she flipped onto her side. Once again, she pondered the question that had been plaguing her for nearly a week. Both she and Dorian had been up front in what they hoped to achieve during these training sessions. She wanted to become skilled in close combat; he sought to seduce her. And yet, not once had Dorian tried to kiss her. He even avoided touching her, doing so only when absolutely necessarily, and even then, briefly. Moirae hated to admit it, but she was disappointed.
Though positive she could fend off an advance, she had been looking forward to getting the chance to do so. The kiss they had shared was far from the first kiss she had ever had . . . but in an odd way, it was. Never had an embrace affected her or plagued her thoughts like the single kiss she and Dorian had shared. In mere moments, desire had spiraled out of control, sending tendrils of fire into every nerve of her body.
During their lessons, she caught herself wanting to lean back into him until his lips were touching the skin of her throat. She imagined her mouth kissing his rough-hewn cheek and how it would feel to nestle her head on his shoulder. What she really wanted, she thought wryly, was to feel Dorian’s arms around her and rediscover the smoldering passion that had lain dormant within her.
And if a first kiss could cause such stirrings and create lasting memories, Moirae suspected Dorian could make her feel much more. The idea was both very appealing and carried low risk. A kiss, even a very passionate one, was something from which she could easily walk away. Physical pleasure only. For no matter what transpired between them, she was not going to become emotionally entangled.
Dorian would never understand her need to be the Guardian. No man would.
She accepted long ago that her life was to be one lived in solitude. But that kiss . . . until then she had not realized her life also was one without passion.
 
Dorian crossed the threshold of the study and eyed the sleeping figure on the settee just as he did every night. Her right palm faced upward, allowing her relaxed fingers to curl and expose the red, inflamed calluses that were forming. The woman was an enigma. Humans just did not endure pain voluntarily. So why was she?
If he were to ask her while conscious, Dorian knew her answer would be—
to become the Guardian.
But just why Moirae felt it necessary to protect the local lands remained a mystery—one that had stalled his plans for seduction.
When he had made her that promise, he had planned to conduct the lessons with indifference, with absolutely no hint of interest in her physically. Knowing the idea he had planted and the way she had responded in his arms, Dorian had expected her to become anxious and possibly even try to tempt him. What he had not expected was to enjoy her stubbornness, feisty personality, and most of all, her sheer company. Moirae saw the world as no human did. As a result, he was not tiring of her as quickly as he would have expected. And several millennia of experience had proven that after the seduction, whatever thrill he was experiencing now would quickly turn to boredom. And he wasn’t ready to end things with Moirae.
He had met, been with, and enjoyed many women over the years, of all types and personalities. As a result, he could go nowhere, meet no one, that he could not understand and, therefore, predict rather quickly . . . until Moirae. She, he could not read. Her unusual perspective was like a drug beckoning him. A trait he suspected repelled the males of her kind. Humans feared anyone unique. But for someone who had lived for centuries, meeting someone atypical had great appeal.
Moirae alleviated his boredom. She gave him something to look forward to and helped speed the monotony of time, but her charm had become something more than sheer stimulation. None of those reasons explained his desire to see her smile and be the reason behind it, to hear her laugh, and most of all, to touch her skin. Something, he had forced himself to avoid.
Her pale skin was the tone of Greek Parian marble, giving her delicate features a refined beauty. Slender and tall, she appeared to the casual observer a gentle creature, but one only had to glimpse into her green eyes to see the fires of passion flash within. And though she tried to hide her feelings, he knew she desired him. Her longing mixed with his own, Dorian knew that when he did succumb to his need to touch her, it would not be the slow seduction he had promised, but an explosion that would either consume them or leave them panting for more. And based on what he had learned earlier that night, they would soon know which.
Once Moirae heard the attacks had resumed, she would be eager to place herself in danger once again. For her to survive, she would have to know how to fight not just from afar, but up close.
Tomorrow evening her lessons would begin in earnest. No longer would he be instructing dispassionately at a distance. Combat was physical and close. Whether Moirae was ready or not, she was going to learn not just how to wield a blade, but what it was like to be truly and uncontrollably seduced.
Chapter Five
Moirae slipped off her mount and wrapped the reins loosely around one of the stable posts. She never saw Holland in the vicinity of the stables, yet whenever she was ready to leave, her horse had been brushed and fed. The couple that supported Dorian was quiet, unobtrusive, and eerily intuitive, but where they came from and why they were there was a mystery. And like many other puzzles connected to Kilnhurst, Moirae suspected this one would remain unsolved when she and Dorian parted ways.
Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and headed toward the tower entrance. Moirae wished she could march indomitably down the hall and into the study to make her demands. The reminder that she couldn’t made her pause for a brief moment and reconsider her plan. The broken bones in her right leg had mended in such a way that quick movements were impossible. As a result, the most difficult part of learning to wield a sword would not be figuring out how and when to defend or attack, but compensating for the lack of quick footwork. But just as she found a way to walk, ride, and even climb steps, Moirae vowed she would grasp the basics on how to wield a blade.
Shoving open the doors, Moirae stepped through the study entrance with more grandeur than she had intended, but it did get Dorian’s attention. She watched his piercing gray eyes sweep over her, taking her in from head to toe in one swift, heated glance, and she suddenly doubted her choice of attire.
Instead of the normal floor-length gown she had been wearing, she had dressed in a boy’s chemise and tunic that only reached her knees, exposing her hosed legs. She had chosen the outfit with only ease of mobility in mind, and yet the desire of Dorian’s gaze was unmistakable. It scorched through her, igniting sensations and latent passions she thought had died years ago. Then, just as suddenly, Dorian’s smoldering eyes went blank as he released his stare, as if he, too, had felt the searing heat.
He arched a single dark brow and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. “I assume by your choice of clothes that you aim to end your lessons with the bow and begin them with the sword.”
Moirae cocked her head slightly in acknowledgment. She had intentionally worn gowns since her training had started. A kirtle did not interfere with aiming and releasing an arrow and she knew they were flattering on her. Despite her wish that she were completely indifferent to his promise to seduce her, deep down Moirae wanted Dorian to at least try. But tonight was the first time he had shown any interest in her. And the fact that she was dressed as a boy—well, rankled.
At first, she had believed his indifference to be a ruse in order to compel her to make the overtures he had so candidly promised. Not a common ploy, but one she recognized. As a result, she had done the opposite, purposefully not doing or saying a single thing to make him think she thought of him beyond that of a mentor. But she had. More than that, she had been keen to discover just what other methods he would employ to get her to succumb to his charm. But Dorian failed to try even one. She had concluded that either he had lied in an attempt to rattle her nerves or that after being around her, simply had changed his mind. For if he truly had meant to seduce her, by now he should have tried
something.
While Moirae had little experience taking advantage of someone flirting with her, she easily recognized it when it happened . . . and Dorian had definitely
not
been flirting the past few weeks. He acted more like an older brother . . . or cousin . . . or a friend of a cousin that had been warned not to say or do anything untoward. She was considering ways to test his resolve and see if he was as truly disinterested as he seemed when word arrived that the attacks had resumed last night. That changed everything. Old priorities ranked once again of the highest importance.
“I would like you to start training me on the sword. Tonight,” Moirae said pointedly, half hoping he would argue, for she was ready to challenge any objection.
“Turn around,” Dorian instructed.
Moirae furrowed her brow, but after a few seconds, she did as directed. Through the open study door, she could see across the hall. Not more than five minutes ago, the double doors had been closed as they had always been. Now open, she could see partially inside. More than likely, it had been originally designed to be a receiving room, but based on the variety of weapons in view, the somewhat narrow space had been converted to an interior training area.
Dorian had already decided to begin teaching her the sword.
“Why the grimace?” Dorian asked, still sitting. “Does this not comply with your request?”
Moirae bit her bottom lip in an attempt to hide her emotions. She hadn’t planned to
request
anything. She had been ready—maybe even eager—to demand he begin training her on the sword. But what really riled her was his aggravating ability to anticipate her intentions, almost as if he were a mind reader.
Dorian rose to his feet and walked over to the two unusual swords. He lifted the first one out of its frame and unsheathed it from its scabbard, studying its beauty. Moirae waited for him to remove the second sword, but he left it alone and breezed by her into the hall, pausing only after he reached the training room door. “If you are ready, let’s begin. There is much you have to learn.”
Moirae twisted her lips and nodded, a secret smile forming inside her. Dorian believed himself to be in control and that he could dictate the conditions of her lessons as he had the bow. However, his arrogance revealed something very interesting. Moirae wasn’t the only one who wanted her to have the lessons; he did as well.
Why, Moirae could not fathom, but it did not matter. That knowledge gave her leverage—albeit very small—but enough for her to get back what she desired most in the world. The role of the Guardian.
 
Moirae watched as Dorian spun the long thin katana in his palm. Her stomach fluttered, and she drew an unsteady breath, inhaling his scent of self-satisfaction. His rich black hair hung loose, barely touching his shoulder. She clenched her hands together tightly, resisting the impulse to reach out and feel the silky tresses run through her fingers.
His attire was like that of every other evening, minus the cloak. He wore a simple leine, open at the throat, revealing the wide chiseled planes of his chest. His dark belted plaid belonged to no Scottish clan she knew of, but yet the wool tartan still looked appropriate on his figure, emphasizing the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips. He may not have been born a Highlander, but he looked like one. Unfortunately, a very goodlooking one.
“Walk toward me,” Dorian ordered.
Moirae’s green eyes narrowed in reflexive defiance, but she didn’t argue. She took a regular step with her left foot and then a quick one with her right, minimizing the weight and the time the leg had to support her. It wasn’t exactly a shuffle, but being in men’s clothing, her fettered walk could not be disguised. Over the years, she had learned to keep her body erect, skillfully using her gown to misdirect attention and hide her awkward movements.
“Your leg—” Dorian began.
“It was crushed when I was seventeen by a falling beam.”
Dorian sent her an exasperated look and finished his original question. “Your leg, does it hurt when you move?”
“No,” Moirae answered truthfully.
“Then why don’t you put weight on it and walk normally?” Dorian knelt down and began to knead the muscles in her right leg.
Moirae swallowed and tried to fight the tears of humiliation that were forming. His touch was not erotic, but indifferent, as he fingered the fragmented bones. By the time she had been found and freed from the broken beam that had fallen on her, her leg had already begun to mend, but not correctly. How could she explain that the thigh bones one takes for granted now felt wrong, and that each time she took a step, her body screamed not in pain, but with warning that her leg would not hold.
Dorian stood and his smoky gray eyes drove into her. “The bones are misaligned, but they are connected and should provide ample support. So, our first lesson will be how to walk.”
Moirae’s jaw slackened in dismay. “You do not understand—”
“Some think strength and the ability to block an attack is the secret to sword fighting, but victory lies with proper physical balance—which starts with your feet. One
must
be fluid and graceful—”
“I will never be either.”
“Then you shall not learn how to fight, by me or by anyone.”
“Then I shall teach myself,” Moirae declared, thrusting her chin into the air.
Dorian, sensing Moirae was not issuing a threat but a promise, sighed with frustration. The woman was going to put herself in danger, and unless she could defend herself, she would soon be dead. And why he cared, he could not comprehend. “It is by choice, not fate, that you limp. Your leg has the strength; it is your will that is weak.”
Moirae fumed. After weeks of training, withstanding fatigue, soreness, and the agony of repeated abuse to her hands, he had the audacity to claim her to be weak? “I believe you know me to be otherwise,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
“Aye, at least until a few minutes ago, when I learned that you would rather hobble than walk. For you could walk, if you chose to.”
Moirae inhaled, her fury still swirled within, but the man actually believed what he said. Could he be correct? “Prove it,” she said, knowing he could not.
Dorian waved his arm. “Walk across the room.”
Moirae did as commanded, but before she could take a step with her right foot, Dorian kneeled in front her and twisted her ankle so that the foot jutted out at a disturbing angle, and not forward. He put it down and motioned for her to put her weight on it and take another step. She looked down and the sight of one foot properly facing the direction she was headed and the other like it had been broken off and poorly reattached was revolting. Instinctively, she turned her right foot back forward. Her hip, now out of alignment, forced Moirae to hop and as quickly as possible shift her weight back to her left foot.
Dorian twisted her ankle again to the unsightly angle. “This time do it my way.”
“I cannot walk in two directions at the same time!” she almost yelled, showing him her meaning by repeatedly bending her right foot from heel to toe. Each step she took would alter her body’s direction.
Dorian quirked a brow, seeing her point. “Then don’t. Instead of walking from your heel, roll your balance from one side of your foot to the other so that it is in the direction you want to go.”
Moirae tightened her grip on her crossed arms as memories crashed into her so vibrant it was like they happened just moments ago. “Did you think I never tried this?” she questioned, remembering people’s laughter. A pretty woman who hobbled was pitied, but no woman was pretty enough to escape scorn when she fell down, which is what happened each time Moirae had attempted to walk the way Dorian was instructing. To prove her point, she took a step on the side of her foot and it promptly slid out from underneath her. Moirae threw out her hands to soften the fall, but there was no need. Dorian had caught her and immediately stood her upright once again.
“Stop being afraid,” he grumbled and reached down to adjust her ankle once more.
Moirae was tempted to strangle him. “How you construe fear from what—” She stopped in midsentence as Dorian began marching in an exaggerated slow fashion around the room. “You won’t make me feel better by appearing more ridiculous than I.”
“When a person walks, they shift their weight completely to the foot that is on the ground,” he said, ignoring her comments and surly attitude, demonstrating in slow motion what he meant.
Moirae had to bite her bottom lip to keep from laughing. It was hard to reconcile this tall, lumbering version of him with the one who was always poised and in control. Then Dorian suddenly changed his gait so that it imitated hers. He rotated his foot out and took a step forward, but he didn’t commit to the effort and kept the majority of his weight on his left foot. It was exactly what just happened when she had tried the same thing. He was trying to move forward with his left foot and since the right was not positioned for him to shift his weight, Dorian stumbled, something Moirae doubted she would ever see again. Then he repeated the maneuver, this time fully committing to his right leg, and while it did look awkward and far from elegant, he kept his balance.
He stopped and stared at her, defying her to challenge his point. Squaring her jaw, Moirae stepped forward with her right leg as if she fully entrusted it to support her . . . and it did. Without thought, she tried it again and again. Each time she was able to maintain her balance and move substantially quicker, looking no doubt extremely odd, but far less clumsy. It would take practice, but given enough time and a gown to hide the odd way her leg was turned, people might actually think her graceful. A term she thought would never be applied to her.
Standing tall and wearing his arrogant smirk once again, Dorian said, “For your second lesson, you shall learn how to dance.”
Moirae came to an abrupt halt and stared at him, unable to prevent her jaw from slackening until her mouth was completely wide open in shock.

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